Soliloquy
by littleblackdog
Summary: Alan/Billy romance. Finding Billy alive in the chopper had been astonishing, but in Alan’s experience, dinosaur attacks rarely left a person unscathed. A look inside the mind of Dr. Alan Grant in the aftermath of Isla Sorna. Language and sexuality.


Billy was asleep. He'd woken up a few times in recovery, slipping in and out of consciousness with the aid of exhaustion and medication, but had been out cold since they'd moved him to a semi-private. They'd rushed out of the chopper on his gurney as soon as they'd touched down on the roof of the San Diego hospital, bound for x-rays then into surgery. Possible internal injuries, setting his arm, suturing him up. Now lying on crisp white sheets, looking so small and so very–so _painfully_ fragile.

He'd called out for Alan on the way to the elevator, voice heavy with the morphine they'd pumped him with during the long flight, but with a line of marines between them Alan hadn't been able to follow, hadn't answered.

There had been questions, after they'd been patched up. None of them were suffering anything more serious that scrapes, bruises, and a bit of malnutrition. Except Billy. Alan had been snappish, anxious, and most likely given the government lads the wrong impression when they'd grilled him, but he also couldn't have cared less. He hadn't been told a thing in what felt like hours. No update. No information.

Finally, _finally_, he was allowed out of the feds' tender care, and was up into the OR foyer, only to find out from the petite nurse at the desk that Billy had been in recovery for about fifteen minutes. The woman, 'Brenda' by the ID clipped onto her sunny yellow scrubs, showed obvious sympathy for Alan's distress, which by then was growing to epic proportions, and offered to call down for a definite update on Billy's condition. Alan stood with his hands clenching white on the edge of the reception desk, listening to a one-sided conversation of 'All right's and 'Mmhmm's and eyeing the large double doors just down the short corridor behind the desk that were marked_ Recovery: Entry Restricted._

Brenda caught his attention and smiled gently, thanked whomever she had been talking to, and placed the phone back in its cradle. She then assured Alan that Mr. Brennan's surgery had gone well and he was stabilising quite nicely. However, she added, he still wouldn't be permitted to see the young man for a while yet.

He sat in one of the not-precisely-uncomfortable chairs of the waiting area, not even putting up a pretext of doing anything other than just _waiting_. Some starlet glittered up at him from a glossy magazine on a nearby table, and Brenda sent him the occasional warm, supportive look as well, but Alan just watched the large clock above the desk and the mocking doors.

Soft footsteps, not loud by any measure but his brain was still in a definite prey-mode and jerked to attention, brought another woman, this one taller and more slender, through the Recovery doors. She immediately struck up a hushed dialogue with Brenda, who in turn nodded towards Alan. His back twinged as all of his muscles tensed.

He stood as the newcomer approached him, all hospital green and white coat. She introduced herself as Dr. Viteri; she had been one of Billy's surgeons. She asked, politely and delicately, what relation Alan was to her patient. She knew they had placed a call to somewhere in San Francisco to contact next-of-kin. No, he wasn't family, per-se. Billy–well, Billy was his assistant, his friend– Alan saw the darkening of regret, and an apology forming in chestnut eyes, and swiped a hand through his hair, tapping his hat rhythmically on his pant leg.

Please, he just wanted to know how Billy was. It was so important. Billy was his. . . his life. Please.

Significant other? Would that get him what he needed? Would that let him hear about Billy, let him see him? Yeah, significant other. The surgeon had still looked a bit hesitant, but relented with a properly timed pleading glance and led him into a smaller, more private room.

Billy's x-rays had shown a cracked clavicle and three ribs broken, all on his right side. A badly sprained wrist and ankle. A concussion and numerous lacerations, a few of which were quite deep, and most already showing signs of infection, but it wasn't anything the antibiotics couldn't clear up. There was a chance of some lasting nerve damage, but it shouldn't be severe. They'd done an exploratory laparotomy because of the severity of some of his bruising but found no bleeding, only a few moderate internal contusions. He would be very sore, she said, but he was doing fine.

Wonderful. Really excellent. When could he see him?

Optimistically, Billy would be moved onto the Floor within the half-hour, but he was having a bit of trouble staying warm, so it might very well be longer.

Alan stepped back into the OR's waiting room and dropped back into a chair, feeling exhaustion creep into him, replacing the fraction of stress that slowly bled out. Billy was doing fine. Alive, and doing fine. Billy–

Billy was _his_. His life, his light, everything good and bright and wonderful in his life, and he'd almost lost him. Thought he'd lost him. Nearly lost himself.

Christ, such a slow, patient courtship—Alan wouldn't deny anymore that that's what it had been— which was exactly what one would expect from a hard-headed, old-fashioned man who measured time in terms of millennia and eons rather than moments and days. But it hadn't been him doing the courting, and it wasn't at all the expected course for the fiery, sharp grad student with the wide, sinful doe eyes to take, for sure. All the same, Alan had found himself on the receiving end of blinding smiles, light but sure touches, and a kind of closeness he barely remembered. He'd been so stupid, so panicked, and they'd wasted so much dammed time.

On the subject of time, an hour on either Isla Nublar or Isla Sorna could easily feel like a year, and a night like a lifetime, but neither could compare to just sitting in that damn plastic chair, watching the hands of the clock stay defiantly motionless.

Suddenly he heard his name, called questioningly, then more urgently. He glanced up, saw her take a step in from the corridor, and then he was on his feet with his arms full of Ellie, nose buried in her hair. He knew he was squeezing too tightly, and that he was shaking, but she didn't complain. Then, after a long moment they pulled apart, both smiling, and moved to sit back down. Ellie asked, and Alan told her the whole story, all about the Kirbys, Eric, and Billy, the eggs, how angry he'd gotten, then the pteranodons, the parasail, watching Billy disappear under the river, having to leave him, how Billy saved them again with the resonating chamber, and then seeing him on the helicopter.

They'd never talked about it, but Ellie knew. She knew, and she was on Billy's side. Maybe it should have been surprising, but Ellie had always wanted him to be happy, and hell, the fact that she'd realised what a good thing Billy was before he did was hardly unexpected. She'd always been the smart one. Now, here, in the bright waiting room, Ellie held his hand and he didn't have to tell her how scared he'd been, or what a moron he realised he was, because she already knew that too.

He was glad she'd come.

It was closer to an hour before the Recovery Room doors swung open and the soft squeaking of the gurney wheels drew Alan up out of his seat, and then everything was a blur until Billy was tucked safely into a blinding white hospital bed, not unconscious but just sleeping and very medicated, and Alan could breathe again, now in a much more comfortable padded chair, not daring to reach out for the bruised, limp hand lying beside Billy's hip.

Ellie had left him sometime, a lifetime earlier, eventually come back with a sandwich and a soda, then disappeared again after she'd watched Alan eat and drink it all. She'd squeezed his shoulder, then hugged him, and Alan was alone with Billy, the room's other bed unoccupied.

Billy's head wasn't bandaged so fully anymore, just a white patch of gauze taped over his left eyebrow and one other just below his hairline. His right wrist was wrapped in an elastic bandage, and his shoulder fitted with a brace to keep his collarbone straight. There was a brace on his left ankle as well, and it was elevated by a few pillows. His skin looked like a patchwork, mottled with dark bruises and angry red welts, and the occasional snow white square of gauze breaking the painful design. His breath was shallow and slow, and he was frowning in his sleep, but he didn't look as though he was in too much pain, the morphine drip running to his arm probably helping in that respect.

He was breathing.

Billy was asleep. Billy was alive.

Alan wasn't sure exactly when he nodded off, but his head felt muzzy and full of cotton when he jerked back into consciousness, and his neck ached. Billy was staring at him with watery, slightly glazed eyes.

"Billy." Billy, Billy, Billy, oh sweet merciful God, Billy. "How do you feel?" He was treated to a very slow blink.

"I told the nurse not to wake you. You look exhausted." Billy's voice was raspy and soft, and now Alan did reach out, brushing his fingers over the knuckles of Billy's unwrapped hand.

"Billy, how do you feel?"

"Could be worse. Everything hurts, but it's not…right there. It's like, achy, but I know it's really worse, that it's the meds. Everything's just so heavy and…hmm." Billy's eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and he scrunched up his nose, wiggling it. Alan guessed, leaning over to rub the bridge lightly and soon Billy relaxed. "Thanks."

"Of course." His hand lingered, brushing sweaty curls away from Billy's forehead. That earned him a long, searching look. There was a silence that seemed far too noisy, full of the unspoken, but eventually Billy smiled, and Alan couldn't help but smile back.

Billy was asleep.

Lying on his back, Alan was tracing the ridge of scar that curled over Billy's shoulder and down his back, and warm, shallow breaths were ghosting across his chest where Billy's head was pillowed. When Billy groaned softly and reached up, curling his arm up and beside Alan's neck and head, Alan smiled a bit and butted up against the hand now tangled in his hair.

They both had early lectures tomorrow—no, it would be today now— and then Alan had meetings until late into the afternoon, but he couldn't wind down, couldn't quiet his mind enough to get back to sleep. They were off-season on the dig, which was now comfortably funded by Billy's lucrative publishing deal, and while the bed in their house had a better, newer mattress than the one in the trailer, Alan had nights when he, not his back, missed the desert. He squeezed Billy closer, his Billy, who was warm and pliant and alive in his arms, and was a bit surprised when a soft, wet kiss was pressed against his collarbone.

"You're way too awake for a guy with class in just a few hours, Dr. Grant." Billy's voice was raspy and soft, and his fingers were lightly rubbing over the shell of Alan's ear. "And so am I. Stop thinking so damn loud."

"Sorry sweetheart." And though he'd tried to sound teasing and light-hearted, Billy still turned and looked up at him, concern clear on his face even in the darkness.

"Alan?" Alan's sigh, which was a bit hindered by Billy half-draped over his chest, escaped before he could stop it. He ran his palm over the scar, then leaned down and kissed Billy's forehead where two thinner, shorter white lines cut across his skin. Billy caught his mouth when he pulled back, using the hand still in Alan's hair to hold him in place, pressing their lips together warmly and smoothly but only for a too-brief moment. He still held him there, their breaths mingling, until Alan's eyes slid open again. "Alan."

"I'm fine." Billy didn't release him, but began using his grip to massage Alan's scalp in a decidedly calculated tactic.

"Tell me." Alan groaned as the body beside and atop him shifted, rubbing against him ever so subtly as Billy's nose pressed into his cheek.

"Bad dreams." Red dreams, looming shadows, wings, and the smell of earth and stagnant water still lingering in his nose and throat. Bitter copper and stale, antiseptic air. And then afterwards, when he was awake and lying in his own cooling sweat and Billy's heartbeat was strong against his side the dream wasn't quite finished, because the scars would always be there.

"Wanna talk about it?" It was all Alan could do to hold back the entirely inappropriate laughter that suddenly bubbled up in his chest. Christ, _he_ was the one having nightmares?

There was warmth and life in his arms, beautiful, chasing away the coldness that still clung to the edges of his thoughts, and before either of them really knew what was happening, Alan had Billy sprawled on his back and pinned in a tangle of blankets and limbs.

"Not really." Billy was blinking up at him, but after the shock of their reposition wore off it only took a moment for Billy's lips to curl up in comprehension and expectation. Billy was alive. Billy was his.

Warmth was quickly giving way to heat, and Alan pressed his hips down as Billy stretched out his arms with a put-upon sigh and arched his back.

"So just because _you_ don't care if you fall asleep in front of a class, Dr. Tenure—" There was a pause, and then Billy got his tongue back when Alan's attention shifted to his jaw, working down behind his ear. "You're going to bring me down with you. That's—Oh Jesus, yeah." Always, always, always bring you with me, never leave you behind again, never. Fuck. "Oh Alan, yeah, right _there_—"

A while later found them both curled up together in a sticky, boneless heap, panting and grinning. The blankets had to be dragged back up from the floor, but that was as far as they'd gotten, deciding that waking up a bit itchy and maybe stuck together was worth not getting up.

There was a bit of muffled murmuring, soft contented sounds and even softer kisses. It wasn't long before even that faded off and their breathing evened out, deepening, syncing, and someone started to snore quietly.

Alan was asleep.


End file.
